


Three times Blast Off walked in on Vortex and regretted it.

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, Non-Sticky Sexual Interfacing, OCs (Transformers)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 20:51:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Content Advice:</b> the first one’s crack with light p’n’p smut; the second one’s very dark, with implied noncon, implied torture, mechanical gore, and would have been a snuff fic if I’d started the scene before Blast Off arrived; the third one is back to crack with p’n’p smut. Each one's a stand-alone ficlet, I've just grouped them by theme. I’ve put each one in a separate chapter, for anyone who’s only here for the cheerful smut ;)</p><p><b>Characters:</b> Blast Off, Vortex, Starscream, Shockwave, and OCs including Shiny (Driveshaft) and Slag-for-Chips, and an unnamed blue grounder.</p><p><b>Summary:</b> Does what it says in the title and content advice.</p><p><b>Notes:</b> There was going to be an ‘and one time he didn’t’, but no. The second one goes with <a href="http://twitchy-rotors.livejournal.com/2119.html">The Tragic Tale of Shiny and Slag-For-Chips</a>, and before <a href="http://lost-carcosa.livejournal.com/25383.html">Five Joors</a>.<br/>Massive thanks to naboru for her advice and support on these :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
**The first time  
[Cybertron, the Golden Age]**   


Blast Off opened the door and froze.

“Oh scrap,” he said. “My apologies…”

But he didn’t just freeze, he dropped the datapad. Its little blue screen cracked and fizzled out. All of Onslaught’s instructions, gone. He could remember them, but… Oh slag, that wasn’t important right now. He’d just walked in on two mechs interfacing. Two of his new colleagues. Interfacing. People he’d have to see on a regular basis. People he’d have to talk to and look in the optics and oh Sigma he’d caught them _interfacing_.

This wasn’t the best start to his third shift cycle in his new job.

“Hey.” The salutation was sultry, seductive even. Shame Blast Off couldn’t see his face, what with staring so hard at the floor.

What was the appropriate response in this kind of situation? It wasn’t as though this had ever happened to him before, he had no frame of reference. He fought the rising heat – part embarrassment and part something he really and truly did not want to acknowledge, especially not right now – and wished, not for the first time, that he’d been built a military mech with a battle mask. It would have been so very useful.

“Um, hello. Sorry for…” Sorry for _what?_ What did he think he was he doing? He should just go. He hadn’t seen their faces, and would continue to bask in blissful ignorance provided he kept staring at the floor. That’s it, optics on the purple metal and shuffle those feet. Turn around and leave, quietly, quickly, no don’t look up, Blast Off what the slag do you think you’re doing!

It was the copter. It had to be the copter. Why had he looked up?

And what in the pit were they doing? Blast Off knew what interfacing looked like, and that? That wasn’t it. Well, it was. There were cables, and they were connected, but there were limbs and fingers and was the copter _licking_ that other mech? While Blast Off watched? Um.

Blast Off began to wish that the structural integrity of the twenty seventh storey would fail, and the floor would open up and swallow them. Both of them. He couldn’t think of any other way out of this.

And the other mech was looking at him. The blue grounder whose legs were wrapped around the copter’s waist, whose azure optics were fixed directly on Blast Off’s.

“Hey!” he snapped. “If you’re gonna watch, you can close the fragging _door_.”

“I’m not watching!” Blast Off blurted. Oh that was dignified. Not to mention untrue. He _was_ watching, whether he wanted to or not. If only the servos in his legs would unlock.

The copter grinned. “You could always join us.”

“No he fraggin’ can’t,” the blue mech said. “And you’ve stopped, why’ve you stopped? Get _on_ with it!”

Blast Off shook his head and backed away. “I… uh…” Just _leave_ already, he told himself, but his feet moved slowly. Too slowly. Oh, thank Sigma, the door, OK, not looking at the copter any more. Not really. Not directly, anyway.

There was a sharp clang as the blue mech slapped the copter hard. On the aft. No no no, Blast Off really didn’t want to have seen that. And he certainly didn’t want to hear the copter’s answering laugh, or the pleased “Oh, slag YES!” from the blue mech as the copter appeared to resume… what he’d been doing before.

Finally, Blast Off got a grip on his servos, and flung himself through the door. Memory purge, that’s what he needed. Just a few credits, and he could scour his databanks clean of this entire embarrassing incident.

Just a few credits.

Blast Off made it back to his office before he realised he’d left the datapad behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content advice: dark themes including abduction, implied noncon, implied torture, implied murder, implied slavery.

**The time with Shiny and Slag-for-Chips**   
**[Cybertron: the end of the Golden Age]**

Blast Off gaped.

There were no words for this.

None he wanted to think, anyway, let alone give voice to.

The door closed behind him with a hiss, a small mercy in a building full of inquisitive mechs. Blast Off’s innards gurgled, a backwash of fumes clogging in his throat.

Vortex sat calmly, slick with fluids and gritty with soot. The eye of a whorl of destruction, he was surrounded by parts. Or parts of parts. A cable discharged sparks at his feet; shreds of armour lay scattered around; the remains of an engine plinked sadly as it cooled.

The copter’s optics were offline, his battle mask drawn and his expression oddly serene. He held a grey canister loosely in one hand. With a lurch of his tanks, Blast Off recognised the contours of a laser core. It was empty.

It took him a while to notice the other mech. He huddled whimpering in a corner, knees tight to his chest, optics wide and every inch of him shaking. He looked up, his lips moving. His silent plea was sickening, and Blast Off fought the urge to kick him.

“What now?” Blast Off asked.

Vortex grinned. There was lubricant at the corner of his mouth, a translucent sheen over blackened metal. Scorch marks; Blast Off didn’t want to guess what he’d done.

“Hold him.”

The other mech flinched.

“No.” Blast Off crossed his arms. It was an effort not to head for the door. “I’m not touching him.”

“Helpful, aren’t you.” Vortex sighed; his optics booted with a quick flare of crimson light. He tossed the empty laser core over his shoulder and stood, dripping fluids. He flashed his captive a quick smile. “How much do you think you’re worth?”

The other mech shook his head. His optics were dull, unfocused. He didn’t look at Vortex, but at the loose heap of cooling scrap, the abandoned laser core.

“How much? Come on, you’ve got to have an idea. I mean,” Vortex paused, stretching. “You got that upgrade, and now look at you. All wings and cockpit. Heh.”

The captive began to keen, an aggravating stream of nonsense noises that were probably meant to be pleas. Blast Off had no idea why he bothered.

“Swindle help with this?” he said to Vortex.

Glass crunched as Vortex approached the trembling mech. “Kinda,” he said. “Fragger’s about as useless as an organic in a smelting pit. He got a comm about a breem in and had to be somewhere else. Comm, my aft. He just doesn’t like to watch.” Vortex grinned and knelt. He stroked the mech’s helm, a gently pointed nosecone of the type that Blast Off always thought made someone look like a right and utter tool. The mech’s keening raised in pitch, but he didn’t try to run.

Blast Off huffed. He didn’t like to watch either, especially not this stage, where Vortex had finished with work and evidently felt that he had the right to play.

“Swindle knows how much you’re worth,” Vortex whispered. “Should I let him sell you? Or would you make it worth my while if I kept you around?”

“Oh for frag sake,” Blast Off snapped. He angled one of his leg-mounted cannons, aiming it at the captive. It was disgusting how the mech’s optics widened at the sound, how his trembling got worse, and still he didn’t run or fight. He just cowered. Utterly pathetic. “Lay back and open up,” Blast Off said. “He’ll let you live.”

“Ruin the surprise, why don’t you,” Vortex sighed, as though he actually cared. But he didn’t, he couldn’t. Blast Off was beginning to suspect that Vortex was incapable of caring. Not about this, not about anything. Or anyone. Except himself.

It was horrible how much enjoyment he seemed to glean from his victim’s distress. Blast Off wrenched himself away from that line of thought. There would be benefits, he knew. Later. When Vortex was less calm and more frantic, more demanding, when he would beg to be restrained, to be denied, when he would want Blast Off and only Blast Off for as long as the shuttle could hold him.

But knowing how he got into that state, it wasn’t pleasant.

Blast Off kept the cannon aimed until the captive finally lay down and withdrew the cover of his interface panel, then he left.


	3. Chapter 3

**The first time after the Detention Centre  
[Cybertron, during ‘The Revenge of Bruticus’]**

Blast Off paused by the prison door. Oh no, Vortex… “What are you doing?” he snapped, trying to keep his vocaliser from hitching.

Vortex had Starscream pressed against the wall, his claws busy with the jet’s ailerons. “What’s it look like?” he hissed. Starscream moaned, wriggling.

There was an answering moan from one of the cells. “Get them out of here, _please_.” Shockwave stood with his arms crossed. He faced the wall, his single red optic casting a bright reflection on the pitted metal.

A growl began low in Blast Off’s engine. This was no time to watch Vortex frag the prisoner. No time to be looking at Vortex at all. Or Starscream for that matter. “Vortex, Onslaught needs you.”

“My interface cable needs him!” Starscream cried. “Get out. Now!”

“Hush,” Vortex hissed. He twisted the wing flap, making Blast Off cringe. Starscream screeched, a high long note which dissolved after a while into a sigh. Blast Off spun around, fists clenched. It was disgraceful.

From behind him came the soft noise of a cover sliding aside, and Vortex whispered, “Open up for me.”

“Ugh.” Blast Off shuddered. Degenerate glitches, rutting against the wall like organics.

In his cell, Shockwave appeared to have come to the same conclusion, his palms pressed flat against his audio processors. If it hadn’t been for the holographic projector incident, Blast Off might have felt sorry for him. But he didn’t much like being ‘had’, as Swindle had so ineloquently put it. Shockwave deserved to suffer.

Blast Off left him there.

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, Blast Off's a complete and utter hypocrite.


End file.
